


Happy Hour

by Winklepicker



Series: Sevsmith Stories [2]
Category: Ex Machina (2015), Midnight Special (2016), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Declarations Of Love, In the best nerdiest way, M/M, kylux adjacent, sevsmith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 02:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18955696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winklepicker/pseuds/Winklepicker
Summary: A Sevsmith quickie. I'm back baby! Maybe. Sort of. This was fun.





	Happy Hour

**Author's Note:**

> A Sevsmith quickie. I'm back baby! Maybe. Sort of. This was fun.

No Sex On The Beach. That was the fourth cocktail Caleb invented. Paul hated sand, it got everywhere. He didn’t like swimming in the ocean, it was too big, too wild. And he didn’t like being cold. His collection of sensible sweaters attested to that.

What he did like was their weekly happy hour when all work was put away, their clip-on bowties were donned over t-shirts and hoodies, and Caleb mixed and presented his latest recipe. What he also liked, very very much, was Caleb, and that was now an indisputable fact.

_He’d spent an entire work day crunching months worth of data. He’d made the graphs, calculated the standard errors, and when it was all done, he’d sat back in his chair, made a grunt of surprise and rolled his neck free of its day of concentrated hunching._

“What do think?” Caleb’s legs swung from his perch on the kitchen bench. He puffed into an enormous cognac glass—the one Paul thought was a fishbowl—making a gentle storm in the dry ice vapour floating above a dark green liquid. 

Paul made a space for himself between Caleb’s legs and parked his hands on his thighs. He parted his lips a little and waited.

“I’m calling it The Gravedigger.” Caleb cupped Paul’s cheek and tipped the glass for him to take a sip. Too fast, and the liquor ran down his chin, his neck, soaking into his shirt. Caleb lost no time putting the glass aside and pulling Paul closer by his lapels so he could lick and lick and lick.

_Paul had printed his report out that night, while he packed up for home. The results of tracking his daily moods, activities, emotions, his heart rate, blood pressure. He found correlations, links, increases here, decreases there over the months since he’d met Caleb. More data would always be better, but this was definitive enough for him. He’d made his arguments, his discussion and conclusions. It was settled._

Cocktail Hour XXIV was a poor but giggly affair. Paul followed Caleb’s precise couch-bound instructions given between bouts of coughing and several exaggerated moans while claiming death was just around the corner. 

He poured the sweetened mixture into an empty Formula 44 bottle and fed it to Caleb with a spoon. Honey I Fucked The Sofa was declared a throaty success, especially after Caleb wriggled out of his boxers and did exactly as the drink demanded while Paul sipped on his own glass and appreciated the bounce in the perfect milky domes of his darling’s arse.

_The document was thermal bound and presented in a clear folder. Printed in twelve point Garamond typeface because it was Caleb’s favourite._

While Paul hid his nervousness behind the Kahlua-based Touching Me Touching You, Caleb devoured the entire report from hypothesis to conclusion. And with every blush that spread down Caleb’s cheeks, Paul took a sip and did his best to remember that breathing was a thing and that he should do more of it.

Caleb closed the document and held it to his chest. He set it aside slow and deliberate, and turned his gaze to Paul. His mouth tried to form words, bring forth noises and language and meaning. His mouth failed. Instead he threw his arms around Paul’s neck and set his mouth the task of kissing him until both of them needed to surface for that pesky breathing business again.

“Are you still collecting data?” Caleb whispered while nosing at his ear. 

Paul nodded and buried his face in Caleb’s neck, drinking in the scent of him—salt, something faintly nutty, and something faintly both of them that was all that afternoon’s romp on the living room plush pile.

“Good.” Caleb squeezed him tighter. “I love you too.”


End file.
